


Snapshots

by Tindomerelhloni



Series: Dear John Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: End of an era, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:22:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: As the title would suggest, this ficlet contains mere snapshots of John and Sherlock's retirement and life after.





	Snapshots

“Everything packed?” John patted down his pockets, double checking for the essentials. Keys, wallet, phone, medical ID card. (Over the years, what with cases sometimes leading to an unexpected A&E trip, he’d found it much easier to carry a card explaining not only his allergies, but his PTSD, and what set it off.

Sherlock, whose hair was now completely gray, partly because John had told him he wasn’t fooling anyone by coloring it, gave him a seething look that clearly said,  _ “Even at my age, my mind is intact, I don’t forget things, John.” _ Which in this very moment, was good because it was the last time he and Sherlock were walking out of 221B Baker Street as tenants. 

Standing in the kitchen, John looked over to his daughter who was taking a much-needed break from jogging up and down the stairs, helping carry things out, then to the flat keys sitting on the table. Aurelia, Charlie’s lifetime best friend, and now new wife, walked up the stairs clapping her hands together. Everything was packed.

“Take care of her,” John said to his daughter, who smiled and snaked an arm around her wife.

“I will,” Charlotte kissed Aurelia on the side of her face and grinned.”

“I meant the flat.” John winked, but he was only half joking. 221B had become theirs after Mrs. Hudson passed away. They’d stayed on, living in 221B for a year after her death, but eventually came to the joint decision that Charlotte and her wife would be better-suited tenants. 221B needed an energetic, adventurous couple. And while they were still that in heart, at their age, it was time for a change. 

Charlie and Aurelia came over and hugged them both, then John and Sherlock took one last look around. Noticing the already less than subtle changes. Gone was Sherlock’s constant clutter, their pictures, John’s chair. (Charlie had insisted on updated furniture. Claiming she didn’t want her friends to think they’d stepped into an old person’s home, nudging her Dad’s side with her elbow and laughing.) John felt his chest tighten, and Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. They made eye contact and Sherlock said one word.

“Home?”

John nodded and, after farewells, followed Sherlock outside where two cars were parked. John would drive the moving van which held the last of their things, while Sherlock would drive their car. Their destination, a seaside cottage in Sussex that they’d found and purchased on Holiday. It was perfect for them, small, easy to clean, a decent garden. (John had decided in his  retirement to take up gardening, while Sherlock claimed he’d have bees.)

During their two hour drive, Sherlock called John six times, each time claiming he was bored, and asking if they were there yet. This made John smile, proving that while some things have to change, not everything will. Comforted, John set his eyes on the last remaining ten kilometers.   
  


*One Year Later*

  
  
Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, heavy cotton bee suit dripping wet with rainwater. He took off his hat and shook his head like a dog just stepping out of the bath, spraying John, and the table John had just finished setting, with water.

“Sherlock, for the love of god, we have a mudroom for a reason. Go back there, take that wet thing off, and…” John pointed a ladle at him for a moment then went back to stirring the soup, “hang that suit up. It stinks to high heaven if you let it stay wet."

Sherlock huffed like a dejected child but did as he was told. Once back in the kitchen he sulked for a few long minutes, watching as John bustled about in an attempt to get dinner ready. Then in a moment of domestic acceptance, pushed himself up off the wall he’d been leaning against and asked, “Can I help?” Surprising even himself he added, “I want to help.” 

Their daughter and her wife were on their way, taking the two hours or so drive from the city to their cottage. Sherlock had known since the call asking to come over that they were not coming for a normal visit. They had news, and he, of course, knew what it was. He’d been kind though and hadn’t spoiled it for John, knowing that his husband would be over the moon, or whatever the expression was. (How do one’s emotions relate to the moon anyway?) He found that he wanted today to go well, without John stressing out over making sure everything was perfect, as was his nature when the girls came to visit.

John looked up from where he was layering ricotta cheese over the lasagna noodles and blinked in surprise a few times. “Uhh… yeah, actually,” he flashed his husband a grateful smile and pointed to where a loaf of bread sat on the counter, sliced and waiting, “could you put the garlic butter on that and stick it on a pan for me?”

That was something even Sherlock could do, who had little knowledge of cooking, enjoying more the art and science of baking. As Sherlock buttered each slice, he found himself deep in thought. He’d been thinking hard while tending his bees. What was it about water that stimulated one’s thoughts? John claimed he had eureka moments in the shower, about how he wanted to word his blog, but Sherlock found the rain and the crashing of the nearby waves to put his brain into motion.

They’d been married for years, longer than the average couple now. Yet they didn’t talk of John’s time as a POW or Sherlock’s time in and out of rehabs. They both knew that those terrible times had happened, and as Englishmen, didn’t speak of them. Perhaps it was the nature of their daughter’s visit, but Sherlock had been thinking about his life, how it had ended up on a path he never dared hope for. On his fourth slice of bread, he cleared his throat and began to ramble. 

“When I was,” he paused, looking for a word other than  _ junkie _ , “a user, I never imagined this for myself.”

John paused for the briefest of moments as he reached for a jar of tomato sauce, then as if afraid Sherlock would vanish, whispered, “Imagined what?”

“Being happy. Living a domestic life and enjoying it. For as far back as I can remember, John, my mind never stopped. My own voice bounced around inside my head, reminding me of every name I’d been called, of every insult. Being smart as a child left me open for mockery, pain, loneliness. I had one friend growing up, and when he moved away all I had was my brother who never missed an opportunity to remind me that he was smarter than I. My intellect set me apart, so I started telling myself I was better off alone, that friends would simply slow me down. That didn’t mend the hole in the deepest pit of my heart, however, the hole that yearned for companionship, for touch, for affection. So I started using, desiring to numb that aching feeling.” 

Sherlock stopped speaking for a moment and John said nothing, just finished sprinkling the cheese on the lasagna and stuck it in the oven and began washing the dishes.

“Then I met you, John, and my whole outlook on life changed.” Now finished with the bread Sherlock spread the slices out on a pan and placed it next to the oven on the countertop, handing he dirty knife to John who tossed it into the soapy dishwater. “You inspired me when others insulted me. So much changed because of your kindness, John. I never expected to live this long, and look at us now, we have a family, a wonderful daughter-in-law, we live in a beautiful seaside cottage, I hardly work anymore yet my mind is calm. You’ve turned me into someone happy to spend a chilly day inside on the sofa watching crap telly as I let you play with my hair.” 

Sherlock smiled gently. Mindless of his wet and soapy hands, John turned from the sink and pulled Sherlock in for a crushing kiss.

“I love you,” is all he said, and it was enough. It was all Sherlock needed.

 

*****Later that day*****

 

“Retirement suits you,” Charlotte cooed as she kissed Sherlock on the cheek. Her hair was slightly damp from the walk from the car to the front door, and Sherlock stepped aside, placing a hand on her back to guide in and out of the rain. “You look great,” she said as she brushed the water droplets off her jacket.

“So do both of you… Aurelia is positively glowing.” Sherlock winked at the girls and cracked a smile. 

“How… oh never mind, of course you know.” Charlie laughed as she rolled her eyes in happy tolerance, “did you tell dad?”

“No, I think that secret is best for you to spill. Though I can’t wait to see his face.” Sherlock kissed Aurelia on her cheek as well and took their coats, hanging them next to his beekeeping suit then ushered them out of the mud room and into the main part of the house. 

“Dad has the table all set, everything is ready. I hope you two are hungry, he’s made enough food to feed an army.”

 

***

 

“So, after a lot of searching, we found a donor who met all of our requirements.” Charlie was explaining as they, now full from dinner, picked at their desert, “we both got inseminated and out of the two of us Aurelia got pregnant.” 

John, who hadn’t stopped grinning since the news broke, put his napkin down and excitedly asked, “So how far along are you?”

“Only about five weeks. We’re not really telling anyone until I’m well into the second trimester, or I start showing. Whichever happens first.” Aurelia placed a hand on her stomach, and with the pride of an expecting mother gave it a fond pat. “So far things have gone smoothly, but there’s always that chance.” 

John, knowing the odds gave a nod, but still smiled as if stopping smiling would cause the pregnancy to vanish into thin air.

“I think you two will enjoy this,” Charlie added as she began clearing their plates from the table, “Aurelia and I have already begun to write letters to the baby. We were wondering if you’d write a couple as well.”

John and Sherlock shared a happy look, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that John seemed to have regained some of his youth in his happiness, and they both readily agreed.

“We’d be honored.” John said, stopping Charlie before she could take his plate. “Let me, you two are our guests.”

“And I’m your daughter, let me spoil you old geezers for an afternoon.” She laughed and playfully swatted away his hand, “Don’t you have old people things to do?”

“Oh… I can still ground you.” John stood and stubbornly held onto his plate. Sherlock listened, completely content with his husband and daughter’s playful banter as they both made their way into the kitchen.

The girls had just called to tell them that they’d arrived home safe and sound. The sun had come out just long enough to paint the sky with hues of brilliant oranges and pinks. John found himself sitting in his rocking chair on their back porch, enjoying the view when Sherlock came up behind him. Bending down he wrapped his arms around John’s chest and rested his head on John’s shoulder. John stopped rocking and turned to place a kiss on Sherlock’s temple. 

“Come on Papa,” Sherlock’s voice was airy and playful, “come take me to bed.”

John laughed at the new name, wondering for a moment what their grandchild would call them, then patted Sherlock’s hand. As the last rays of majestic color sank behind the ocean, John stood and taking Sherlock’s hand lead him into the bedroom where he would show Sherlock that he was not quite as old as he looked.

 

**Eight Months Later**

  
  


“Right.” Just stepping into the house from a long walk, where John had been having an equally as long think, he stopped just inside the door and pointed at Sherlock who was half asleep in his armchair. “Come on, get up, we’re going.”

“Excuse me?” Yawning Sherlock straightened and looked up at John with a quizzical look.

“Get your coat and meet me in the car.” John’s tone left no room for argument, and within five minutes, Sherlock was sitting in the car beside John, staring at him with ever-growing impatience. After studying John for a moment, noting the way his jaw was set tight, the thin lines of worry around his eyes, the way he kept licking his lips Sherlock sighed and let out a groan.

“I’m not some dog that can be tricked into going to the vets with a promise of a joy ride and a biscuit.” 

“Don’t care. You’re seeing a doctor, I’ve already set up the appointment.”

“As I’ve reminded you more than once, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m quite married to a doctor.” 

“You’re married to a retired doctor, Sherlock. I don’t care if I have to hit you on the back of the head and drag you into the office unconscious, though I’d be facing some pretty serious spousal abuse claims. You’re going.”

“And why exactly?”

“You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t listened to your heart or checked your pulse while you’ve slept? Which, you’ve been doing an awful lot of lately. You’re asleep more than you are awake, which isn’t like you. Early drug use, no offense, plus the way you always ran yourself ragged while on cases, it did its toll on your body. You’re getting a full checkup. You’re living to give our grandson a few good memories if I have to keep you held together with glue.” 

“Fine… but you first.” Sherlock pulled the buckle down over his chest and snapped the metal catch into place.

“I guessed you’d say that we’ve got back to back appointments today. Doesn’t matter who goes first. We’re old, Sherlock, it’s just what we need to do.”

“You first, you’re older.” Sherlock sniffed but had to hide a grin as John pulled the car out onto the main road. John, ever his caregiver, was living up to his profession, and it was rather endearing.

John and Sherlock came away from their visits with their GP collectively with half a dozen different medications and Sherlock had a follow-up appointment with a Cardiologist in London after the doctor found his heartbeat to be irregular. Both John and the doctor did their best to assure Sherlock that it was just a precaution, that probably, nothing was wrong. But Sherlock saw the way John’s face paled slightly and knew something was off.  

Five days later, after being squeezed into an appointment much faster than Sherlock would have preferred, they were making the trek out to London. John tried to sugar coat it, tried pretending like they were simply on their way to visit their overdue daughter in law, even packed the gifts for the baby into the boot of the car. That, however, didn’t shake the feeling of trepidation from their trip. 

The Cardiologist was thorough, very thorough, and wouldn’t let Sherlock leave until he agreed to wear a heart monitor for 24 hours. John agreed for him and ignored his husband’s scowl as they were sent back out to the waiting room until a nurse could fit the monitor on Sherlock and show him the basics. After about ten minutes of waiting John’s mobile buzzed, as he read the text he patted Sherlock’s leg excitedly, stumbling over his words as he exclaimed, “She’s gone into labour!”

“And we’re in town,” Sherlock said, trying to sound unhappy but found that he couldn’t muster the strength to remain in his sulking mood. Their grandson was on their way, and god damn it, he was excited. So excited, in fact, that he didn’t snap at the nurse once, and even let her explain how to use the device, despite being married to a doctor who didn’t need any explanation. 

Seven long hours later, Charlie stepped into the waiting room on the maternity ward, looking tired but exhilarated. “You guys can come now.” She was positively beaming with pride as she introduced the newborn to them, kissing her exhausted wife on the forehead as John took the infant into his arms. 

“Do you have a name picked out yet?” he asked, running his finger over the boy’s pink face.

“Actually,” Charlie sat on the edge of her wife’s bed, holding her hand as Aurelia slipped into sleep, “We were thinking William Hamish, we haven’t decided on a last name yet, but we’ll probably go with hers.” Charlie had kept Watson-Holmes as her last name after they married, not wishing to have a thrice hyphenated name. Watson-Holmes-Ruest was definitely too much of a mouthful.

“Well, can’t say he’ll love that middle name, but I certainly do.” John grinned and passed the boy off to Sherlock. 

“Hello, you.” Sherlock whispered, bringing the newborn up to kiss him on his forehead. “Aren’t you just perfect?”

John and Sherlock helped the girls settle in at home, John made sure they had plenty of food and offered to cook a few meals for them but Charlie waved him off. 

“Dad, we’ve got this. I know how to cook, and how to order takeaway,” she laughed, kissing his cheek. 

“Alright, just… if you need anything,” began John.

“We’ll call. I know. Don’t worry.”

“We’ll be back in town for a few days, doctors appointment, we’ll check up on you then?”

“Ta.”

They bid the new family goodbye, wishing to stay longer to hold their grandson just a few minutes longer, but knew first hand that the girls needed their space. 

 

*** Two weeks later ***

 

At first, Sherlock thought that no news was good news. It had been two weeks since he’d returned the heart monitor and they hadn’t heard anything. Sherlock was almost starting to believe that it was just old age that he’d just have to take it easy when the doctor called. John answered and Sherlock hovered. He watched John’s face, saw the sign that something was wrong and plopped himself down in the nearest chair and listened to one side of the call.

“The earliest you can, yeah,” John was saying as he flipped open a nearby calendar. 

“Uh… 20th? Yeah, we’re free.” 

_ Pause _

“Yeah, we understand. Thanks.”

John hung up and looked grimly over at Sherlock. “Do you want to know?”

“I’ll figure it out anyways… might as well just tell me.”

“They think you need a pacemaker, you’ve got to go back for a few more tests, and then they’ll schedule you for surgery.”

“Can you do it?”

“The surgery?” John pulled up a chair and sat so their knees were touching. “Luv, you know I don’t have my license anymore.” 

“I know.” Sherlock allowed John to take both his hands in his and looked up to meet John’s gaze. “The tests will be on the 20th?” 

“Yeah, and depending on how they go…” John trailed off. 

“Surgery.” 

“Yeah, but it won’t be that day, luv, you’ll have a bit of time to get your mind in the right place.”

“Should we tell the girls?” Sherlock asked, honestly worried more about how the new family would react.

“We’ll tell them if it comes down to surgery, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

  
  


*******

 

“I’m thirsty, John,” Sherlock whined, laying in bed next to his husband who was very stubbornly trying to read.

“It’s past midnight, Sherlock, I told you to get a drink before we went to bed.” John flipped a page then sighed as Sherlock curled up against him and let out a huff of annoyance but still needing to be comforted. He put the book down and shifted to his side and placed an arm over Sherlock’s body, rubbing his shoulder in small soothing circles. “I’ll get you an ice cube to suck on if you’re that thirsty, but that’s it.”    
  
“No, don’t leave.” Sherlock shuffled closer and rested his forehead against John’s chest. It was unlike Sherlock to be nervous, but John supposed heart surgery was a valid reason for anyone to find nervewracking. 

“I won't don’t worry.” John felt the book sliding then heard it drop to the floor. “Everything will be alright.” 

A soft knock on the door broke the following silence. Charlie opened the door a crack and asked, “Are you two decent?”

  
“And if we weren't? Would that stop you?” Sherlock asked, trying his best to put on a brave face for his daughter. 

“It might,” she replied coyly. “I don’t have any horror stories of walking in on my parents doing it, and I think I’d like to keep it that way.” She stepped into the room and left the door open a crack behind her then moved towards the bed where her parents lay cuddled to one side. She lay down on top of the blankets on the other side of Sherlock and draped an arm over him and let out a deep sigh. “You okay dad?” 

“Nervous, don’t exactly like the idea of someone touching my heart… but I’m.. fine.” Sherlock replied, somehow managing to keep his voice even.

“When you put it that way,” she scooched up beside Sherlock and, for a moment it was like she was five years old again, joining them in bed to seek comfort from a bad dream or a thunderstorm. Sherlock rolled onto his back and took his daughter's hand in his. “You don’t have to be here Charlie,” he stared up at the ceiling, “but I’m grateful.”   
  
“Of course I have to be here. I just wish you two idiots had told me sooner.”

“We didn’t tell you right away because we learned something was wrong the day Will was born. It just… wasn’t the right time.” 

“I understand,” she said simply, resting her cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. “You two are sure you don’t need me to drive you?”

“The hospital is no place for a baby, Charlie, you stay here and get the kettle ready for me.” Sherlock squeezed her hand and tried to smile. “Just, be here for your dad, if something…”

“No! Don’t you dare say that, Sherlock!” John cut in sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

“As you wish, my dear,” Sherlock was surprisingly gentle as he turned his head to look at John, who had tears welling in his eyes. “I’ll be fine like you said, they do this surgery all the time. You picked the surgeon yourself.” 

“It will be,” Charlie added and then they fell silent. Sherlock fell asleep with his daughter and husband close by.

That night he dreamed that Charlotte was three, he and John had woken to the sounds of her crying over the baby monitor. 

_ “I’ve got her,” John sighed, voice thick with sleep. He rolled himself out of the blankets and sat hunched over on the side of the bed for a moment, blinking the sleep from his eyes, then got up. Sherlock listened first to his footsteps, then to his soft voice as he pulled their crying daughter up out of her bed. _

_ “It’s okay, daddy has you,” he hushed her, and Sherlock could picture him bouncing her and kissing her sweaty forehead. “Why don’t you come down with us, yeah?”  _

_ Sherlock smiled, he loved having Charlotte in bed with them. He would never admit this, because one he was a grown man and two he was Sherlock Watson-Holmes, a well known and well-respected detective, but he loved cuddling. He especially loved when Charlotte chose to cuddle with him over John. He’d look over at John with that teasing “she loves me more” look all parents get, then hold her close and bottle up the moment into a part of his mind palace set aside just for Charlotte.  _

_ His dream carried on, taking him seemingly through every night Charlotte had ever spent in bed with them until his mind brought him back to the present. He knew he was still sleeping, that his mind was filling in the gaps. That Charlotte, his grown daughter, was, in fact, asleep beside him. One last cuddle, he thought and marveled that he would be that lucky.  _

He woke to John gently shaking his shoulder, he vaguely understood that John was telling him it was time to get up, that they needed to go. Panic threatened to seep in, to take over, so he simply nodded, let his mind go back to images of Charlie as a toddler, and let his long-suffering husband help get him ready. It wasn’t like he needed to be presentable, weren’t they just going to strip him down and cut open his chest anyway? 

The car ride to the hospital was silent. Sherlock didn’t say a word until John had parked in the carpark and turned the car off. It wasn't’ too late, Sherlock could still back out. But he closed his eyes in surrender and whispered, “For Will.”

“Yeah, for Will.”

He woke in recovery later that day, John was sitting in a chair beside his bed watching him and his vitals like a hawk watched a wounded rabbit. When John finally noticed he was awake he heard the sigh of relief and practically saw the stress melt away from John’s shoulders as they sagged. 

“Miss me?” he asked, though it came out as a croak and he wrinkled his nose in disgust at his transport’s betrayal. 

“You were intubated, your throat might be a bit scratchy for a while. I’ll ring the nurse and see if she’ll give you some ice chips.” John bent over the bed and kissed Sherlock on the forehead then pressed the call button on the side of Sherlock’s hospital bed.

“The doctor said everything went well, was a model surgery. I just… worried.” John ran a hand through his hair then pinched the bridge of his nose. Still worried, Sherlock noted. Had something gone wrong?

“It just… took a few hours longer than I expected. Been a while since I was behind the wheel, so to speak.”

Sherlock laughed, imagining that surgery was as simple as hopping in the driver's seat and shifting the car into gear. 

“Everything’s fine then?” he asked with a rough voice, and started to rub his hand over his chest, then stopped short, realizing he’d probably have stitches there. 

“Yeah.” John nodded his head, his chest filling with air as he sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, it's good. You’re good. Thank god.” He sagged into the chair again and sucked in another lungful of air like he hadn’t dared to breathe while Sherlock was in surgery. Sherlock clumsily reached a hand out towards his husband and John readily took it, careful not to bump the IV needle.    
  
“When can I go home?” 

“Tomorrow, as long as things continue to go smoothly. The doctor will be in later to program the pacemaker, I think. There are apps now, that will let you monitor it. It just… it gives your heart a helping hand.” 

Sherlock nodded and did his best not to get sick at the thought of spending a night in a hospital bed.

“I’ll stay as late as they’ll let me,” John was saying, still holding onto Sherlock’s hand as a nurse bustled into the room. Sherlock sighed… without Mycroft around to intervene, John wouldn’t be allowed to spend the night. “I miss Mycroft.”

“Yeah,” John smiled sadly and had to let go of Sherlock when the nurse needed to get between the two of them.

The years carried on. In which John and Sherlock spent as much time with their grandson at school and life would allow. When he turned six, and it was known for a fact that he wasn’t allergic to bees, Sherlock began taking William out to tend to the bees with him.

They bestowed every ounce of love they had into their grandson, treasuring each and every moment they got to spend with him. Charlie and Aurelia, for their own reasons, decided not to have another child. Perhaps it had something to do with Charlie being a highly sought after doctor, always busy with work, or because their heart was full enough with William.    
  
Regardless, John and Sherlock never asked for another grandchild. They loved William as much as they had loved his mother. Holidays were spent at the cottage, and William would come to stay with them for two weeks during summer break. And when he was older, bedtime stories turned into stories of past cases, daring chases, near-death experiences. 

Then one summer, Charlie and William came up for an unexpected visit. They’d done that before, but this time they caught John lounging lazily in his rocking chair, shirtless and watching his husband with the bees. William’s eyes went wide when he saw the scars on his Popop’s chest, and Charlie gave her father an apologizing look then went to fetch him a shirt. 

William said nothing about the marks until they’d sat down for scones, freshly baked and drizzled in honey. After a mouthful, William set his scone down and looked at John.

“Was it form the war I heard you were in?”

John shared a look with Sherlock, who shrugged. It was, after all, John’s story to tell, if he chose to tell it at all. John looked his grandson in the eyes and say, “Yes.”  They’d told Charlie, but she had been older. John chose not to give details, simply told William that he’d been held captive and had been treated poorly. William nodded, then took another bite of his scone. 

 

***

William was 13, John was 78, and he felt every year of it. They’d just come back from London after spending William’s birthday with the family. Sherlock excused himself to bed as soon as they got in, not bothering to check on his bees, or caring that the sun was still up. John watched him climb the stairs with a heavy heart. He puttered about the cottage for a short time, before he couldn’t stand it anymore. Just as the sun began its slow climb towards the sea, John climbed the stairs himself and curled up in bed beside his husband, kissing him gently on the cheek when Sherlock stirred. 

“John…” Sherlock called weakly each breath he took felt like he’d just run a marathon. His, partly deff but stubborn as hell and refused to admit his husband rolled over in his sleep but didn’t wake. Sherlock mustered what energy he had and smacked John on the shoulder. John woke with a grumble, but after one look at Sherlock when pale as a ghost. 

“Hi…” Sherlock whispered, reaching a shaky hand out to touch John’s wrinkled, but beautiful face.

“Hey…” John replied, a grim look on his face.

“I… its time, I think,” Sherlock said, thanking the universe for the chance to say goodbye. Not everyone was as lucky.

“No…” John half sat up, cupping Sherlock’s hand to his cheek, tears streaming down his cheeks already.

“Yeah, its time, luv.  It’s time. I’m just… so tired.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and for a moment John was afraid they wouldn’t open again. But after a handful of far too long moments, Sherlock’s eyes flicked open and sought out John’s. 

“We’ve had it good, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” John sobbed, bringing Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissing it. “Real good. But I was supposed to go first, Sherlock… I was…”

“I already lost you once, John… Not to be selfish, but it’s your turn now.” Sherlock smiled a warm smile that made the wrinkles around his eyes contract and a single tear broke free. 

“I don’t want to live without you.” John, who was now sobbing heavily, laid back down and pulled Sherlock onto his chest, holding him in a bruising grip, Sherlock clung just as tightly.

“Just for a little while, luv. Someone has to keep an eye on the bees.” John’s nightshirt was wet with Sherlock’s tears, and he heard each labored breath Sherlock took as if it were a siren. 

“I just thought we’d have more time.”

“More time? John I’m ancient. Look at me.” Struggling Sherlock raised himself up off of John’s chest, and shook his head, a smile now on his face despite his tears. “Kiss me, John.” 

“Yeah… yeah, come’er.” John clumsily tried to wipe the tears from his face, but gave up, which in the end was fine because Sherlock was still crying as they kissed. 

“I love you.” Sherlock mumbled softly, brushing his lips against John’s. “Tell the girls and Will too…”

“God, I love you too.” John cupped the back of Sherlock’s head with one hand. Somewhere during the next kiss or two, Sherlock’s body went limp against him. John lay in bed, cradling Sherlock’s body for nearly an hour before mustering up the strength to call Charlie.    
  


“Shit… dad… we’ll be there in a few hours.” Charlie said when John broke the news, sobbing like a child into the phone. John didn’t even have the strength to say anything, he just hung up the phone and went back to Sherlock’s body.   
  
  


*** One week later ***

 

_ Dear Charlotte, _

_ Thank you for being there for me today. Today was... yeah today was the hardest day of my life. I told him not to go, that I wanted more time. But, he had to go. I’m glad we were able to say goodbye.  _

_ Thank you for sending Will home with me to stay for a while. I don't think I could bear being in an empty house tonight, which I think you knew. You're just as brilliant as he is... was.  _

_ I don’t know how long I’ll last without him. I don’t mean suicide, I wouldn’t be that stupid. But our hearts were one, and mine beats a little less now.  _

_ When I go, do me a favour and give the bees to someone who will really care about them, yeah? I don’t know shit about them, even though Sherlock had them all this time. I was just content to watch him. There’s a kid down the road, he started just by buying honey from us, but he really showed an interested in them, Sherlock taught him a lot. See if he wants them when I’m gone.  _

_ I always thought it was a myth… souses dying within months of each other. But I feel it in my heart of hearts, Charlie. And it isn’t just grief. God, I loved him… So fucking much. _

_ Thanks for being here for me, staying with me this past week. I don’t know how long I can do this on my own, you being here helped a lot. _

_ Love you,  _

_ Dad _

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I figured the only way I could end this series was with their death... while we only saw Sherlock's, I know in my heart John followed a few short weeks after. I may or may not have made myself cry with this, and if I've made you cry then I know I did my job well. 
> 
> I hate ending this series... but... I think it is time. They had a good life, they had each other, which in the end is all that matters. 
> 
> I'm working on my own story, an original story, and while I don't expect it to be published, or ever to make a ton of money off it... I wanted to write something that was mine, that wasn't John and Sherlock.... Maybe someday you'll see me in the book stores? Until then... I'll still write fanfic.


End file.
